Chapter 17 The Second’s Unrest
The Second’s Unrest
The moon hung low over the camp, silvered and silent, as Thessia the Lioness walked the perimeter of the camp, checking ward anchors and noting any cracks or defects in stabilizer stones.
Every so often, she looked down at her hands, where dried silver blood lingered.
Her eyes narrowed to where calloses and scars had made a home for years.
Yet now, the skin there was smooth and unmarked.
Healed as though by divine will.
She wiped the blood off on her tunic. Tensed her jaw.
Moonbeam, just what are you? Using magic without a conduit. Closing rifts in the sky. Looking at me with a smile, those silver eyes shining like starlight. Gods help me, what have I stepped into?
She couldn’t help it—her gaze dropped to her healed skin again.
Does he know? Do they know? A dangerous secret, and not mine to tell. Not when I’m just a fool hanging on your every word like it’s my guiding star.
A sudden wind blew across the clearing, as though Elendria had sensed her thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, horses whinnied—but here, by the edge of the southern perimeter, the world held its breath. Lost to time. Waiting for the Lioness to choose her next step on a winding path.
She stroked one of her braids, fingers catching at the aged violet ribbon braided into it. An old habit she'd picked up over the years. Her hand wandered there when danger lurked close. When instinct warned against something creeping in the shadows.
The silver blood on her skin gleamed, and in that moment Thessia chose silence.
Made it a vow.
Time let out its breath. Footsteps shuffled behind her, muffled in the grass. She turned, her grip tightening around the hilt of her glaive. Her body tensed, then relaxed.
Zarrek walked toward her with a grave look on his face, his dark skin reflecting the moonlight.
Judging by the way his upper lip pressed against his teeth in disgust, he needed a drink.
Maybe several. Too bad bloodwine rations had been dwindling.
None of them could afford that particular luxury right now.
Thessia put her hands on her hips. “You look like you lost a fight with the stableboy,” she said. “And forgot to get drunk afterward.”
Zarrek approached without a sound. No sharp remark, no swaggering gait. Just presence, heavy and quiet.
She tilted her head. “Need something?”
He didn’t answer. Just leaned against the outcropping beside her, arms crossed tight, shoulders bunched like corded rope. His eyes glowed gold beneath his brow. Bastard looked rattled, and because there wasn’t much in any realm that could rattle the Bloodletter, she tensed.
He didn’t look at her for a long time. Just stared at the Commander’s tent far across the clearing, jaw locked, the line of his mouth carved from stone.
“…You all right?” she asked.
Zarrek shook his head once. “Not even close.”
A pause. The wind tugged at the folds of his overcoat. The wards hummed.
“I’ve seen him bleed,” Zarrek muttered. The gravel in his voice deepened. “Seen him go weeks without sleep, days without food. Carving through platoons like he was born with a blade in each hand. Void—he was.”
A pause.
“I’ve watched him stare down monsters and warlords without a blink.” His throat bobbed. “But tonight. With her…?” He shook his head. “Never seen him like that.”
Thessia studied him. The white-knuckled grip on his arms. The way he stood too still, like any movement might shatter something inside him.
And then she said, “Isn’t he allowed?”
Zarrek frowned. “To what?”
“To care.” She met his gaze evenly. “He’s a man underneath all that doom and legend. Isn’t he allowed to cherish someone?”
Zarrek snorted, but it lacked heat. “If he’s a man, he’s never acted like one.”
“Then maybe she’s the first person he thinks won’t use it against him.”
His jaw clenched. Whatever answer he had died there.
“That girl…” he muttered. “She’s going to break him in half.”
Thessia’s jaw tightened. “If he doesn’t break her first.”
A humorless grunt. “Krystopolis might try before either of them gets the chance. If he takes her as his Sokar…”
Thessia frowned. “Still don’t understand what that means.”
Zarrek scratched the back of his neck. “Old scare story. Stuff they feed to green recruits so they don’t piss themselves.”
He jerked his chin. “Destroyer’s chosen. Resh’Agar’s consort. Supposed to keep half the damn Shields from collapsing so the Cycles don’t tear the city apart.”
He spat to the side. “Heard ten versions. All bullshit.”
His eyes narrowed. “But that white hair…the crones swear the Sokar is a ‘light in the dark.’”
He shrugged. “Looks like a girl to me.”
Thessia twirled her ribboned braid. "I've never seen the Crystal City. Only heard rumors."
Zarrek barked a dry laugh. “Count yourself blessed. The Darkness down there wants to eat everything that still breathes up here.” He jerked his thumb toward the tents. “Resh keeps the peace with the Surface. Last wall between us and those magic-drunk lunatics.”
Thessia smirked. “There’s not much peace left up here either.”
Zarrek kicked a stone. “Up here you can still choose your own rot. Down there, it’s gilded and served to you with a smile. Doesn’t stink until you’re knee-deep.”
“Sounds like you want to retire.”
Another rough laugh. “Yeah. Thought about it. Given more than enough. If not for him, I’d have walked away centuries ago.”
Silence fell between them. Thessia flexed her healed hand.
“Is he really taking her there?”
Zarrek shrugged. “Where else would he take her?”
Thessia clenched her fist. “Her magic is…strange. Unnatural.”
“She's wrong by every rule I know,” he growled. “Every part of her.”
Thessia grinned. “And yet you’re worried about her.”
“Following orders,” he snapped. Too fast.
She didn’t call him on it, but she thought it anyway: That little moonbeam has you wrapped around her finger, and you don’t even see it.
She leaned on her glaive. “You’re both smitten. Different flavors, same sickness.”
Zarrek grunted. “Speak for yourself. You’ve been sniffing around her, too. Letting her ride that oversized cat of yours.”
He glanced upward at the dark sky, where red clouds pressed down. “Hope she makes it to morning. Never seen him like this. Don’t care to see what happens if she fades.”
Thessia murmured a prayer to the Riven, braid twisting in her fingers, ribbon catching the moonlight.
“Come on, Bloodletter,” she said at last. “Let’s find a drink. If we’ve got any left.”